


The Legend of My Play

by lirin



Category: Oxford Time Travel Universe - Connie Willis
Genre: 5 Times, Gen, Singing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-11
Updated: 2019-08-11
Packaged: 2020-08-18 23:55:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20200297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lirin/pseuds/lirin
Summary: Kivrin first heard the song long before she reached the fourteenth century.





	The Legend of My Play

**Author's Note:**

  * For [primeideal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/primeideal/gifts).

The first time Kivrin hears the song, she's five, so she can hardly be expected to appreciate it fully. But she stops squirming all over the hard wood church pew and stares unblinking at the singers as their voices move up, down, and around.

"Wasn't that a pretty song?" Mummy whispers when it's over. Kivrin nods enthusiastically. Yes, it was very pretty. She wonders if the concert will be over soon. Mummy said Santa Claus would be giving out candy in the foyer to all the good children afterwards, and Kivrin has been very, very good. Well, except that she's now crouched backwards on the pew again, making faces at the people in the balcony. But mostly good.

***

Once Kivrin has selected the early fourteenth century for her destination, she makes arrangements to sit in on lectures in other departments that cover that period: musicology and art and fashion and such.

The only musicology lecture that's being offered any time soon isn't for the fourteenth century per se (much less  _ early _ fourteenth), but all of medieval music lumped together, from the sixth century to the fifteenth century. Not enough of it has survived, the lecturer explains, to split it out into the many separate lectures that, say, nineteenth century music will be given. Kivrin makes a note of that on a page of her notebook (already half full), entitled "Topics for Future Historians Once We've Proved That Medieval Study is Possible". Though almost all of the music the lecturer presents is church music—the only genre that was written down in musical notation so long ago, at the nascence of notation itself—he assures them that there would have been other genres that just didn't have as much chance of preservation.

"For example, mystery plays were a source of religious education for the illiterate," he says, "and they certainly included music. Scholars theorize that this song, which mentions a play in its lyrics, may have been sung at the beginning or end of a mystery play. Keep that in mind as you pay attention to the words." He presses play.

The song sounds familiar somehow, though Kivrin can't think where she would have heard it. She doesn't make a habit of listening to anything earlier than the 1970s, maybe the 1960s when she's in the mood for something really old. Maybe she heard it playing in a mall or something. She leans back and listens to the music; might as well enjoy the momentary respite before the lecture resumes.

***

Sundays are busy for Kivrin. She attends Latin mass at Holy Re-Formed as part of her prep—the parts of the mass that remain constant from week to week have become more and more familiar to her, until she thinks she could recite them along with the priest—and immediately after that she rushes over to St. Mary's to attend a Church of England service in English. She grew up going to C of E services for as long as she can remember, and when she'd come to Oxford, she'd seen no reason not to continue the practice. She rarely has time to linger after the service and chat with anyone, but the other parishioners still smile and say they're glad to see her (and sometimes attempt to buttonhole her for longer conversations, which she escapes with apologies).

Even on the last Sunday before she is—with any luck—to leave for the Middle Ages, she still makes time to attend both. It's probably a good idea to have the mass fresh in her head, isn't it? And as for the C of E service, well, there's no reason to break with habit now.

The vicar always makes announcements at the end of the service, right before the closing hymn. Kivrin is only half listening, because she's tired and it's not as if any of the announcements have anything to do with her anyway since she won't be here, when she hears her name.

"One of our number, Miss Kivrin Engle, will not be here next Sunday, as Lord willing, she will be in the Middle Ages." There is a susurration as everyone turns to look at Kivrin. She tries not to blush, but doesn't entirely succeed. "I'm the farthest thing from an expert on medieval music," the vicar continues, "but I did manage to find a song that is suited to this Christmastide season and which may very well date back to Kivrin's destination era. I've asked the choir to perform the song for us, and I do hope you all will send Kivrin your best wishes and keep her in your prayers this week."

He steps down from the lectern, and the choir begins their tune, accompanied by piano and drum and a tambourine that they've dug up from somewhere. Though the tune is different, Kivrin recognizes the words almost immediately: it's the mystery play song from the musicology lecture. Kivrin sits and listens to the choir, and tries not to worry too much about how she's never going to get out of here in a hurry today, with everyone wanting to wish her well. And there's still so much to be done by the day after tomorrow.

***

For all that Rosemund tries to act grown up, as her elders command her to, she is little more than a child, more comfortable around the sister she sometimes scorns as a "babe" than around her grandmother or the servants. Kivrin, still convalescent from her long illness, sits on the window seat and watches them from above.

"Tell Blackie a story!" Agnes commands, throwing herself onto the ground near the manor wall and settling her hound in her lap.

"I know not any stories," Rosemund replies, but she does not walk away.

"Tell the story of the dancing Christ child!"

"I remember it not," Rosemund says.

"Oh my love, my love, my love," Agnes says. "You remember our father took us to see the players."

"I remember it  _ little _ ," Rosemund says, finally bending to Agnes's insistence. She leans back against the stone wall and sings, in a soft, faltering voice. The interpreter recognizes her song and turns it into the familiar words that Kivrin remembers from St. Mary's and the musicology lecture. "In a manger laid, and wrapped I was. So very poor, this was my chance, betwixt an ox and a silly poor ass—"

"Rosemund! Agnes!" Lady Imeyne storms out into the courtyard with some command or other, and the singing is ended. The girls spring apart and hurry to do her bidding before Imeyne can find something to criticize (not that such obedience is likely to stop her).

Later, Kivrin hears Imeyne lecturing Eliwys. "Plays are no place for children or maidens," she sniffs. "If my son must view them, he should leave Agnes and Rosemund with their nurse. I shall tell him that when we go to Bath."

Though Imeyne may think mystery plays unsuitable entertainment for children or maidens, somehow Kivrin suspects Imeyne might consider it permissible for an older married woman such as herself to attend them—or else how could she have recognized what Rosemund was singing?

***

Agnes has been delirious for hours, screaming and shrieking at times, and other times lying still and silent. Sometimes she calls for Kivrin, for Rosemund, for her mother, but the next moment they seem forgotten. In the midst of these groanings, Kivrin hears her whimper for "mylovemylovemylove," and realizes she's thinking of the carol that Rosemund had sung for her. 

Well, Kivrin does not know how similar the words and tune she learned all those lifetimes ago in musicology lecture are to the version of the song that Agnes knows, but hopefully the interpreter will fix some of it for her, and Agnes is unlikely to be a discerning listener. Kivrin kneels at her bedside and struggles to remember how it goes. "Tomorrow shall be my dancing day," she sings slowly. Tomorrow. She doesn't know if Agnes will even be alive tomorrow. "I would my true love did so chance to see the legend of my play, to call my true love to my dance." If Christ truly loved these people, would he not let them live? Choking back tears, she can sing no more.

But there is another voice in the room, a surprisingly sweet baritone. "Sing, oh! my love, oh! my love, my love, my love," Father Roche sings. "This have I done for my true love." 

Kivrin turns to look at him. How can he still believe in Christ's love, after all this?

"Some traveling players came to this village several years ago and sang that carol," he explains. "I ask pardon if I should not have interrupted."

Agnes seems calmer; her little fists are not clenched so tightly on the blanket, and she is quiet again. "There is naught to pardon," Kivrin says. "Do you remember more of the song?"

He nods, and continues. "Then was I born of a virgin pure, of her I took fleshly substance; thus was I knit to man's nature, to call my true love to the dance."

He sings it like he still believes Christ exists, like he still thinks a dancing day awaits them after all of this. Kivrin doesn't know if she can bring herself to believe, not now—but perhaps she can be glad that there is someone, at least, who still believes. She joins him on the chorus. "Sing, oh! my love, oh! my love, my love, my love, this have I done for my true love."

**Author's Note:**

> In my mind, the version of the song in the first section is the [John Rutter](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4J-RKZOyBkc) version, and the version in the third section is the [John Gardner](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0VTkJSIXXzU) version (which was also the prompt for this fic).


End file.
